


Bourbon and Southern Lace

by Claire



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd still been there when McCoy had gotten out of the shower, a puddle of black against the Starfleet issued sheets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bourbon and Southern Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo, for the _Crossdressing (lingerie / underwear)_ square.

McCoy's just sent Ensign Collins back to his quarters with instructions to sleep off the cocktail of drugs that he's just given him when the doors open behind him. He's about to tell them to take a seat on one of the biobeds, that he'll be with them as soon as he's finished here when someone's behind him, so close McCoy can nearly feel the heat from his body and the subtle scent of aftershave ghosting across him.

"Are you wearing them?"

The words are too soft to carry beyond the two of them, but McCoy glances over to where Christine's standing anyway, PADD in hand and cataloguing some of the supplies. He's almost expecting her to be looking at them both, at Jim standing too close for this to be anything professional, and is kind of surprised to find she's paying them no attention.

"Jesus, Jim." McCoy wants to ask Jim if he's really come down from the bridge just to ask _that_ , but the words are held captive as Jim's fingers circle his wrist and he presses closer, any hint of propriety vanishing in the raging wind that is Jim Kirk.

"Are you?" Jim's thumb is brushing over the sensitive skin inside McCoy's wrist and he's grinning at the shudder he can feel running through him. Cocky bastard.

"Yes," McCoy hisses, voice low in the silence of sickbay. "Yes, I'm wearing them." Because he couldn't _not_ wear them. Not when Jim had held them out this morning, fingers curled around black silk with fucking _lace_ , and all but begged. Not when he'd promised the world and _god please, Bones, makes me so fucking hard just thinking about it_.

McCoy had taken them out of his hand, fabric soft and almost slick to touch and all Kirk had done is grinned, fucking _grinned_ , as he'd pressed a quick kiss to McCoy's lips and left for the bridge.

They'd still been there when McCoy had gotten out of the shower, a puddle of black against the Starfleet issued sheets and he'd thought that he should just leave them there, testament to Jim Kirk and his _really stupid ideas_. Because McCoy didn't think it was going to be anywhere near the hot and sexy that Jim had apparently labelled it in his head. Didn't think it was going to be anything but uncomfortable and weird and prone to chafing in places that really shouldn't chafe.

Which doesn't explain why McCoy had found himself reaching out for them, sliding them on under his uniform before running fingers through his hair and making the three deck trip to sickbay. Doesn't explain why he's gone through his shift half hard and balls cupped by smooth silk.

"Christ, Bones--" There's a hitch in the words, low and barely there, and the grip on his wrist tightens. "Your office, right now."

"Sorry?" Because Jim has to be kidding, can't actually expect him to just drop everything because Jim is hard and hot and wanting.

But Jim just presses closer, hardness against McCoy's hip that he can feel through both uniforms. "Bones, I've been sitting on the bridge all day wondering if you're wearing them." Jim's voice is soft, barely a murmur that's filled with heat. "And now I know that you _are_ \--" There's a beat, two, and McCoy realises he's not breathing, waiting for Jim's words. "Well, now I _really_ need to fuck you."

"Damn it, Jim, I can't just abandon sickbay." Not even if he wants to. Not even if his cock is jumping at Jim's words, jumping at his very presence.

"There's less than ten minutes left to your shift," Jim points out, tone far too reasonable for a man too close and too hard and too damn _Jim_.

"I--"

But Jim's not listening as he drops McCoy's wrist and steps away, head up and focusing on Christine's location without hesitation. "Nurse Chapel? Doctor McCoy and I need to go over some urgent reports. Can you make sure we're not interrupted unless it's an emergency."

"Yes, Captain." She nods at both of them, barely sparing them a glance before she goes back to her work.

Jim's back against him the moment her attention is off them. "See, Bones," he says, hand straying to McCoy's hip and squeezing gently, "it's just that easy." And the shift from Jim to Kirk and back again is so sudden that McCoy's head is spinning.

Neither of them speak on the short walk to McCoy's office, but McCoy's half convinced there's a sign above them, blaring out in lurid neon green exactly what both of them are thinking, exactly what's going to happen once the door is shut behind them.

The quiet command to the door ensures their privacy, hiss and click shutting out the rest of the Enterprise for everything less than a crisis, shutting out everything but Jim's lips on his and a hand running down his stomach to press against the hard cock straining behind McCoy's uniform.

"Lemme see, Bones. Come on--" Part of McCoy wants to tell Jim that it's unbecoming for the Captain of the Federation flagship to be all but begging, but he's too focused on Jim's hand, too focused on the touch that's too light and too careful to be what he needs.

"Jim, please--" And if it's unbecoming for the Captain to beg, then it's sure as hell unbecoming for the CMO, but McCoy doesn't care anymore. It's not the first time he's begged and he doubts it'll be the last, not with Jim Kirk in his life, brash and loud and too fucking _there_ for McCoy to do anything but hold on and hope he survives the ride.

Jim just smirks as his hand moves, fingers deftly undoing McCoy's trousers and sliding inside, sliding over the silk and running a finger under the elastic sitting too goddamn high on McCoy's hips.

"I want to bend you over right here." Jim leans closer as he speaks, even though they're alone, even though the words wouldn't carry through the soundproofed walls. "I want to bend you over and fuck you so hard you feel me for a week. I want you to walk out of here sticky and used and unable to think of anything but my cock in your ass." He licks a stripe across McCoy's neck and McCoy thinks he should have enough brain cells left to worry about how unsanitary it is, licking people who've been working for hours, but all he's stuck on is Jim's tongue on his skin and Jim's fingers edging closer to his cock.

"I want you to walk out of here and have everyone who looks at you know how hard you've been used." Jim is still speaking and his fingers are still moving, but they're not where McCoy needs them to be.

"Jim--" Word broken and desperate, with _yes_ and _now_ and _need_ and _want_ underscoring each breath. If Jim would just _touch_ him, the teasing little bastard, this would all be over. Because Jim's fingers are everywhere except where they should be and he's envisioned a thousand and one ways of dying in space, from Klingon attacks to Andorian water fever, but blue balls was never one of them. Maybe it should have been.

And Jim _knows_. Because his hand stops for just a moment, palm hot against McCoy's thigh for a second before he's _there_ , fingers wrapped around McCoy's cock and jerking him roughly through the silk. And that's all it takes, Jim's fingers and a few seconds and McCoy is coming, harsh and sharp and pleasure arching through him as he spills into Jim's touch, silk becoming a sodden mess in a few short bursts.

Bones is wrecked, knees barely holding and the edge of the desk sticking in his ass, but Jim's still just grinning that fucking grin of his, bright and wide and like every Christmas has been hand-delivered by a troupe of naked dancing girls. There's nothing between them now, personal space a concept Jim Kirk's never seemed to grasp since the first day they met. Nothing between them as Jim catches McCoy's ear in his teeth and tugs lightly, hardness still pressing into McCoy's hip.

"Bones--" Jim's voice is rough, betraying his unaffected air, as he rests his cheek against McCoy's and murmurs, "My turn."


End file.
